Torn Apart
by Riddell Lee
Summary: Helen watched the battle between two men she loves from a high window. Her heart felt as though it might shatter... she had brought this war to pass. It was her fault. Priam tries to comfort her, but cannot forget. So many dead, so many lives destroyed.


**A/N:** A prompt for Ancient World Literature.

Torn Apart

:::

Helen felt Priam's comforting hand on her shoulder and then he was gone, his footsteps echoing down the stone hall. She turned, watching his graying hair retreat quickly away from the window before her, away from the confrontation about to break out on the field below. She heaved a heavy sigh and turned back to the window, wringing her hands.

He couldn't watch this, and she understood that. She wasn't even sure that she could herself. Priam's sons where all down there, clad in bronze armor, brandishing spears and swords, ready to fight among comrades. And opposite them were the Akhaians, a mass army of men, summoned here on her behalf, fighting for her return. And so, while every piece of her rational mind screamed at her to turn away, to return to her room and block the horrors of battle from her mind, she couldn't. She felt rooted to the spot by some unseen force, an unexplained fascination that kept her gaze fixed on the two armies, circling each other, teeth bared, waiting for the other to strike.

She glanced toward the head of the Trojan army. Paris stood there, holding his helm in his hand, shouting something she could not hear to the Akhaian army. Her heart fluttered madly within her chest, and her mind flashed to a previous time, Paris enveloping her in his arms, silken sheets, his brown eyes warm and playful as he brushed his lips tenderly against her skin…

She shook her head, pushing the memory away. She focused her gaze, trying to understand what was happening before her. Something had transpired while she had been distracted. Paris had taken a step back, retreating back into the fold of soldiers. Helen's brow puckered in confusion, _what was going on?_

And then a man took him aside, pulling him away as easily as if he were a rag doll. She'd recognize that flashing helm anywhere, Hektor, Paris's elder brother and Trojan War hero. Even from this distance she knew that he was displeased. He was brandishing his spear at him and she could almost see the look of revulsion on his face. She chuckled quietly, imagining Hektor calling him a coward, again. But her amusement was short lived, any last remnants of a smile sliding of her face.

Paris had all but asked Hektor to fight this war for him. She might not of minded but, Paris himself hardly ever took part in it, spending all his time safe and sound behind the wall, leaving his elder brother alone on the battlefield. Helen looked down at the stone beneath her feet. Sometimes she wondered why they didn't just kill Paris, hand her over, and be done with it. Her lip twitched with a smile as the answer came to her, and she cast her eyes back onto the battlefield.

It was because Hektor, underneath the gruff exterior and armor, was a good man who loved his brother… even when he yelled at him.

A swell of cheers drew her gaze to the Akhaians, finding _him_ instantly. Menelaos, her first husband, was pacing back in forth at the head of the army. Her heart swelled and her eyes glimmered with unshed tears at the sight of him, a deep _longing_ encompassing her being. A longing for her former life, for a time of peace.

She watched him fondly for a moment, memories of large meadows, the sweet smell of the sea wafting in through her bedroom window, and the Akhaian halls clouding her senses. That life seemed so old now.

Menelaos stepped out onto the empty field between the two armies, as a torrent of sound erupted from both sides. Confused, Helen glanced at the other side and watched as Paris pulled on his helmet and went out to meet him.

Her blood turned to ice, her breath caught in her throat. They were going to try and avoid more war with a one-on-one battle. She took a step back from the window, her heart hammering wildly in her chest. She couldn't watch this. She couldn't watch these two men clash for her love, for she loved them both.

Helen ran a frustrated hand through her golden hair, trying not to look at the two of them but failing. She did not even know who to cheer for! They were fighting over her and she could not choose whom she would rather stay with.

"I suppose it is good I do not have a choice in the matter," she muttered bitterly.

The battle below commenced and the cheering grew louder, keeping her there, watching terrified as Paris cast his long spear at Menelaos. It struck his shield and ricocheted harmlessly back. Menelaos twisted around and she could see his lips moving very fast and knew he was offering up a silent prayer to the gods. He took aim and sent his spear at Paris driving it through his shield.

Helen gasped and leaned forward, her hands clutching the sill of the window so tightly that her knuckles turned white. Paris twisted away, however, and escaped with his life, but she could see where the point had hit him.

"Don't die on me," she whispered and then she clamped her mouth shut, ashamed of herself. Would she rather that Menelaos die and continue living here in Troy? Here in this walled city by the sea with the man who had whisked her away from home? Although, he had told her the story of how she had come into his possession. And, she had admitted that he had won her from the gods fairly. Now, this was not to say that the gods had been fair in this matter. For them to promise a married woman to another was cruel and unjust, and she often wondered whether or not they had wanted to trigger this war for the safe of their own amusement. But, they were the gods and they had dominion over them so, she should belong to Paris at Troy.

Below, Menelaos had drawn his sword and swung it toward Paris, hitting his helmet ridge. But then, the blade broke, shattering into jagged splinters and falling from his hand and onto the ground.

"No," she said faintly, feeling fear fill her heart. He had no weapons, no way to defend himself. The love that she had once felt for him bubbled again to the surface and her eyes brimmed with tears. She didn't want him to die, how could she ever have even considered it? He had every right to her, more right than Paris had. She had been stolen away from him. The gods knew that she had been married already to another powerful man who loved her, how could they do such a foolish thing? Did they not know that it would start a long brutal war, destroy the lives of thousands and tear families apart?

She wiped away a stray tear from her cheek and looked back down at the fight. Menelaos, even with no weapons, refused to lose. He jumped toward Paris, dodging his sword and grabbing his horsetail crest, throwing him to the ground. He then proceeded to drag Paris back toward the Akhaian side, the cheers from the army deafening.

It was done then. Helen tore her eyes away from the scene and instead gazed at her pale hands.

Maybe the gods did know about the war that would start over her. Everyone knew of their idea of entertainment, so it was more than likely. She was just the catalyst that was needed to give these men a reason to fight. Helen clenched her fists angrily for a moment before it faded. She glanced up at the field and watched as Paris's helmet unloosed and fell from his head. Menelaos tossed it into his army and picked up a lance, charging forward, ready to finish this once and for all.

Helen didn't want to see the end. She turned away and walked back down the hall, her footsteps echoing loudly. Her life had been torn apart once before, and it was about to be torn once more.


End file.
